The neon lights of Piazza Bellini pulsed in rhythm with the fading summer heat, casting long shadows across Francesco Sarracino’s cracking, stubbled face. At thirty-four, he wore the night like a tailored suit—snug in some places, loose in others, but comfortably and unmistakably his. The rhythmic pounding of bass leaked from underground clubs, a siren song that pulled at him even as the tightening noose of his wedding ring anchored him to a different life. Francesco paused at the entrance of his favorite discoteca, caught between the intoxicating promise of the night and the sobering reality of dawn. In that moment of hesitation, he glimpsed his reflection in the club’s tinted windows: a man split in two, hovering on the knife’s edge between responsibility and recklessness. With a deep breath that tasted of cigarettes and regret, Francesco stepped inside, leaving behind the muggy Naples air and the last vestiges of his daytime self.
The familiar embrace of the club enveloped Francesco—a cocoon of pulsating lights and damp, writhing bodies. He navigated through the crowd with practiced ease, nodding to familiar faces, his fingers trailing across bare shoulders and sweat-slicked backs. At the bar, Bruno, the perpetually grinning bartender, already had Francesco’s usual ready: a tumbler of amber whiskey, no ice.
“Franci! Thought you might be giving us up for Lent,” Bruno shouted over the music, sliding the drink across the polished wood.
Francesco’s laugh was a practiced thing, masking years of disappointments and perceived unreached potential. “You know me, Bruno. I’d sooner give up breathing.”
As the liquor burned a familiar path down his throat, he felt the chatter of his mind that followed all day while laboring under the hot sun quickly vanish. He closed his eyes and for the first time that week, a genuine smile appeared on his face. Francesco opened his eyes and scanned the dance floor. It was a ritual, this search for something—someone—to make him feel alive again. His gaze snagged on a flash of golden hair, a lithe figure moving with liquid grace to the thunderous beat.
For a moment, time seemed to still. The girl—woman?—turned, and Francesco felt the air leave his lungs. She was young, painfully so, with eyes that held both innocence and something darker, more knowing. As if feeling the weight of his stare, she looked up, meeting his gaze with a small, secret smile.
Francesco drained his glass, the chill of the whiskey at odds with the sudden heat in his veins. He knew he should turn away, go home to Giulianna and little Niccolo. He could picture them now: his wife’s disapproving scowl as she folded laundry, his son’s toys scattered across the living room floor like landmines of domesticity.
Instead, he found himself moving towards the dance floor, drawn by an invisible thread. The girl’s smile widened as he approached, and she raised a delicate hand in invitation.
“I’m Apollina,” she said, her dark, heavy voice somehow carrying over the din of the club.
Francesco took her hand, feeling calluses that belied her polished appearance. “Francesco,” he replied sheepishly, already knowing that this moment would divide his life into before and after.
As they began to move together, the rest of the club faded away. Francesco was acutely aware of the wrongness of this, of the years stretching between them, of the gold band on his left hand. But for the first time in years, he felt truly present in his own skin.
He didn’t know then about the winds of change this encounter would stir up, didn’t see the dark clouds gathering on the horizon of his carefully compartmentalized life. In that moment, there was only the music, the movement, and Apollina’s enigmatic smile.
The harsh light of morning crept through the shutters, painting stripes across Francesco’s face. He groaned, his head pounding in rhythm with the phantom bass still echoing in his ears. The bed beside him was empty, the sheets cool to the touch. Giulianna had been up for hours, no doubt.
As if summoned by his thoughts, his wife’s voice cut through the apartment. “Francesco! Get up! You’ll be late for work. Again.”
He recoiled at the sound of her voice. He put his hands over his eyes and pictured Apollina’s dark, soft voice whispering into his ear as they walked along the Palazzo dell’Immacolatella on her way to her apartment. Even the memory of it was intoxicating.
He dragged himself out of bed, wincing at the sunlight that assaulted his eyes as he stumbled to the bathroom. The man in the mirror was a stranger—old, bloodshot eyes, stubble gone from rakish to unkempt, the lingering scent of smoke and perfume that wasn’t his wife’s.
In the kitchen, Giulianna moved with sharp efficiency, her disappointment a palpable force. She didn’t look up as Francesco entered, focusing instead on packing Niccolo’s lunch.
“Papa!” Niccolo’s excited squeal pierced through Francesco’s hangover. The boy launched himself at his father’s legs, nearly toppling them both.
Francesco mustered a smile, ruffling his son’s hair. “Hey, campione. Ready for school?”
Giulianna’s lips thinned. “He’s been ready for an hour. Even the boy has responsibilities.”
The barb stung, but Francesco let it slide. He poured himself a coffee, the rich aroma momentarily cutting through the fog in his head. “We have a big shipment coming in that I have to sign for. Not sure what time, though. You know how it is. Might be home late.”
“Of course you will be,” Giulianna muttered, finally meeting his eyes. The weariness he saw there, the resigned disappointment, hit him harder than any hangover. “Your father called. He needs the quarterly reports by Friday. Also, I’m going to Adrianna’s after dinner tonight. She needs help with…something.”
Francesco nodded, guilt twisting in his gut. He was letting everyone down—his wife, his son, his father. Yet the thought of another day under the scorching sun, another evening of mind-numbing paperwork, made him long for the cool darkness of the club.
As he kissed Niccolo goodbye and headed for the door, Giulianna’s voice stopped him. “Francesco.” He turned, hope flickering in his chest. Her eyes softened for a moment, and he saw a glimmer of the woman he’d fallen in love with years ago. “Be careful out there.”
He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. As he closed the door behind him, Francesco couldn’t shake the feeling that he was walking a tightrope, and sooner or later, he was going to fall.
The sun beat down mercilessly on the construction site, the air thick with dust and the cacophony of machinery. Francesco wiped the sweat from his brow, his mind wandering to the cool darkness of the club, to Apollina’s soft laughter. His mind wandered deeper and deeper as it detailed every line and curve of her soft face. His heart raced as he lost himself in the intensity of her eyes, the warmth of her lips, and the tenderness of her hands. He barely noticed the approaching figure until a heavy hand clapped the back of his head.
“Francesco! What’s the matter with you, boy?” Luca Sarracino’s voice boomed, cutting through Francesco’s reverie.
Francesco turned to face his father, forcing a smile. “Just thinking about the new development, Papa. It’s going to be something, isn’t it?”
Luca’s eyes narrowed, scrutinizing his son’s face. “Come to my office. Now.”
The air conditioning in Luca’s office hit Francesco like a wall, a stark reminder of the privilege his family’s success afforded them. Luca settled behind his imposing desk, gesturing for Francesco to sit.
“You’re distracted,” Luca stated flatly. “More than usual. And it’s affecting your work.”
Francesco opened his mouth to protest, but Luca waved him off. “Don’t insult me by denying it. I’ve seen this before a hundred times. You’re not the first man to daydream about a piece of ass.”
Heat rose in Francesco’s cheeks. “Papa, I—”
“Save it,” Luca interrupted. “You think I don’t know what goes on in this city? A man has… needs. I understand that. Jesus, son, don’t I understand that. But you’re doing it all wrong, figlio mio.”
Francesco blinked, caught off guard by his father’s words. “What do you mean?”
Luca leaned forward, his voice low and conspiratorial. “Look, it’s no secret. A real man, he knows how to balance these things. He takes care of business, provides for his family, and if he chooses to have a little… entertainment on the side, he does it discreetly. We all need to unwind. There’s not a goddamn thing wrong with that. But he doesn’t let it interfere with what really matters.”
“And what really matters?” Francesco asked, a hint of defiance in his voice.
“Family. Business. Legacy.” Luca’s fist hit the desk with each word. “Not this playboy nonsense you’ve been indulging in. Acting like some goddamn child. You think I approve of you stumbling home at dawn, reeking of cheap perfume and cheaper whiskey? No. If you’re going to do this, do it like a man. One woman, kept quietly. Not this… debauchery.”
Francesco’s head spun, his mind grasping at a whirlwind of emotions. Embarrassment. Confusion. Rage. “So you’re saying you want me to cheat on Giulianna, just… better?”
Luca’s laugh was harsh. “I’m saying I want you to grow the fuck up. Be a man. Stop letting your dick dictate your life. You have responsibilities, Francesco. To this company, to your wife, to your son. To me. And yes, if you must, to your mistress. But above all, to yourself and the Sarracino name.”
Francesco stood at the window of Apollina’s small apartment, watching the sunset paint Naples in hues of gold and crimson. He had watched the same sunset almost every Thursday, Friday, and Saturday since his talk with his father. As far as Piazza Bellini was concerned, Francesco Sarracino was a ghost. Behind him, Apollina moved about the kitchen, the domestic sounds a stark reminder of the life he was trying to escape. The chattering of glassware consumed every corner of his mind. He craved the beat of the discoteca, the thrill of the chase. It took every fiber of being not to scream right there in the kitchen just so he could infuse some energy into that stale, stagnant, decaying room.
“I can’t do this anymore,” Francesco said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Apollina paused, a plate half-dried in her hands. “What do you mean?”
He turned to face her, his eyes haunted, he knew he needed to say something. “This… double life. It’s suffocating me, Apollina. At home with Giulianna, at work with my father, here with you… I’m always playing a part, always pretending.”
Apollina set down the plate, concern etched on her face. “Francesco, we knew this wouldn’t be easy, but—”
An idea flashed before his eyes. A bolt of excitement shot out of his chest.
“Let’s leave,” he interrupted, the words bursting from him like a dam breaking. “Let’s go somewhere, anywhere. Away from Naples, away from all of this.”
Apollina’s eyes widened. “Leave? Francesco, that’s… that’s crazy. Where would we go? What would we do?”
He crossed the room in quick strides, taking her hands in his. “Let’s go to Athens! No, No, that’s stupid. Spain. Yes! Spain! Barcelona. You mentioned once you had a friend there, remember? We could start over, be whoever we want to be.”
Apollina pulled away, shaking her head. “That was just talk, Francesco. A daydream. We can’t just… run away.”
Her reluctance thrilled him.
“Why not?” Francesco pressed, a desperate edge to his voice. “Think about it, Apollina. An adventure, just you and me. No more sneaking around, no more lies. We could be free.”
She looked up at him, doubt warring with longing in her eyes. “But… your family? My family? Your job? My studies? We’d be leaving everything behind.”
Francesco cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs tracing her cheekbones. “Everything except each other. Isn’t that enough?”
For a long moment, Apollina was silent, searching his face. Then, slowly, a smile spread across her lips. “An adventure, huh?”
He nodded, hope blooming in his chest. “The greatest adventure of our lives.”
Apollina took a deep breath, then nodded. “Okay. Okay, let’s do it. Let’s go to Barcelona.”
Francesco pulled her into a fierce embrace, his heart pounding with a mixture of exhilaration and terror. “I’ll make the arrangements. We’ll leave in a week, I have a friend, he’s a fisherman, he can take us before one of his trips. A midnight adventure!”
As they held each other, the last light faded from the sky, plunging the room into shadows. In the darkness, neither could see the other’s face—Francesco’s etched with desperate hope, Apollina’s with a flicker of uncertainty she couldn’t quite hide.
The Sarracino home was quiet, save for the gentle ticking of the clock on the mantle. Francesco moved through the familiar rooms like a ghost, his duffel bag packed and hidden in the trunk of his car. Every object seemed to hold a memory: Niccolo’s toys scattered across the floor, family photos lining the walls, the faint scent of Giulianna’s perfume lingering in the air. It smelled sweet for the first time he could remember in a long, long time.
He found his wife in the kitchen, her back to him as she prepared dinner. For a moment, he simply watched her, trying to memorize the curve of her shoulders, the way her hair fell across her neck. He stood in the doorway, uncertain of which way to step, a sudden self-imposed interloper in his own home.
“Giulianna,” he said softly.
She turned, a knife paused mid-chop. Her eyes met his and a small, casual smile rested on her face. Francesco felt a pang twist deep inside in liver. He wanted to cry.
“You’re home early,” she said, her tone calm and neutral.
Francesco nodded, moving further into the kitchen. “I… I wanted to talk to you before Niccolo got home from his grandmother’s.”
Giulianna set down the knife, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “What is it, Francesco?”
He took a deep breath, the lies he’d rehearsed suddenly sticking in his throat. He wanted to tell her everything. He wanted to be the kind of man that could look his wife in the eyes and simply say “Giulianna, I have been dishonest with you. I have been disrespecting you. I have been dishonoring you. And I cannot do that anymore. So I am leaving.”
But he did not say that. Because he was not that kind of man. He never had been.
“I completely forgot to tell you. There’s a shipment coming in tonight. Palazzo dell’Immacolatella of all places, can you believe it?” Francesco tried to force a chuckle.
Giulianna’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Palazzo dell’Immacolatella? With all of the shops? At night? That’s… unusual.”
Francesco shrugged, aiming for nonchalance. “Ah…you know how these things are. Always crazy. Always last minute.”
A heavy silence fell between them. Giulianna studied his face, and Francesco fought the urge to look away.
“And how long will this take?” she asked, her voice soft but edged with something Francesco couldn’t quite place. Disappointment? Suspicion? Resignation?
“I’m not sure,” Francesco said, the words tasting like acid in his mouth. “Could be a few hours.”
“…maybe longer.”
Giulianna nodded slowly, turning back to the counter. “I see. And I suppose you already ate dinner?”
Francesco swallowed hard. “Yes.”
Another long moment of silence stretched between them. When Giulianna spoke again, her voice was eerily calm. “Be careful out there, Francesco. The docks can be… unpredictable.”
The weight of unspoken words pressed down on Francesco. Did she know? Had she guessed? He opened his mouth, though whether to confess or offer more lies, he wasn’t sure.
But Giulianna cut him off with a wave of her hand. “You should say goodbye to Niccolo before you go. He’ll be home soon.”
Francesco nodded, relief and guilt warring in his chest. “Of course. I’ll… I’ll call when I can.”
He moved to leave, but paused at the kitchen door. “Giulianna, I—”
“Just go, Francesco,” she said, her back still to him. “Do what you need to do.”
As Francesco walked out of the kitchen, Guilianna placed her hand on the center of his back, rubbed it and guided him gently out the door. As quickly as she locked it behind him, she had the kitchen phone in her hand.
“He just left. Apparently he’s going to Palazzo dell’Immacolatella…”
The Palazzo dell’Immacolatella loomed before Francesco, its weathered stone facade eerily quiet in the moonlight. The lapping of waves against the docks and the distant cry of a seagull were the only sounds breaking the midnight silence. Francesco’s heart raced, a mixture of excitement and terror coursing through his veins.
He checked his watch in vain. It was the fifth time he had done so in under three minutes. 11:41 PM. Nineteen minutes until midnight, when Apollina was supposed to meet him. Nineteen minutes until the start of their new life.
As he waited, Francesco’s mind wandered to Giulianna. The way she had touched his back as he left, almost tender, almost like a goodbye. Did she know? How could she know? How could she not care? Why wouldn’t she try to stop him? Was the life they had built together not worth fighting for? The thought made his stomach churn.
A sound behind him made Francesco whirl around, his nerves on edge. But it was only a stray cat, darting between shadows. He let out a shaky breath, trying to calm himself.
11:53 PM. Where was Apollina?
The sound of footsteps echoed off the stone walls. Francesco’s heart leapt. “Apollina?” he called out eagerly.
But the figure that emerged from the shadows wasn’t Apollina. It was a man, broad-shouldered and menacing. He wore a baseball cap far below his eyes and tilted his forehead towards the ground. Francesco squinted at the figure but he could only really see the bottom of his face.
Francesco stood firmly with his hands clasped in front of him.
“Hey, how’s it going?”, he said as casually as he could muster.
The man continued to slowly and silently walk towards him.
“Listen, pal.” Francesco demanded, backing away slowly. “What do you want?”
The man continued to say nothing, just kept advancing. In the dim light, Francesco caught the glint of something metallic in the man’s hand.
Panic surged through him. He turned to run, but his foot caught on a coil of rope. He stumbled, fell hard onto the rough wood of the dock.
As he scrambled to his feet, he felt a hand grab his shoulder, spinning him around. The man’s face was inches from his own now, twisted with a mix of anger and… was that pain?
“You don’t recognize me, do you?” the man growled. “It’s Bruno. I guess you really did give up partying for lent, huh? Or maybe you just took up another hobby. At least that’s what Giulianna tells me.”
Francesco’s blood ran cold. Giulianna? His mind reeled, trying to process this information.
“She told me everything,” Bruno continued, his grip tightening. “About your affairs, your lies. How you were planning to abandon her and your son. You don’t deserve her, you fucking animal. That woman is the world and this is how you treat her?”
A glob of Bruno’s spit landed just below Francesco’s eye.
“No, you don’t understand—” Francesco started, but his words were cut off as Bruno’s foot connected with his jaw.
The two men grappled, their struggle desperate and messy. Francesco fought with all he had, the primal instinct for survival taking over. But Bruno was stronger, fueled by a rage Francesco couldn’t match.
Suddenly, in the middle of all of the chaos, a sharp pain bloomed in Francesco’s side, stealing his breath. Bruno pulled the knife out from under his ribcage and stuck it into his liver before twisting and pulling it out again. He stumbled back, his hand coming away red and slick.
As Francesco fell to his knees, the world seeming to tilt and spin around him, he heard a scream. Through blurring vision, he saw a figure running towards them. Golden hair catching the moonlight. Apollina.
“Francesco! No!” Her voice seemed to come from far away.
Bruno stepped back, the knife clattering to the dock. He looked from Francesco to Apollina, confusion and horror dawning on his face. Apollina began to wail into the sky. As silently as he appeared, Bruno attempted to slip back into the darkness but was quickly stopped by a group of fishermen who were drawn to the commotion.
“No…no, you don’t get it. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this,” he pleaded in near catatonic state himself. “My girlfriend…she sent me here. It was just supposed to be a fight. It was just supposed to be a fight.”
As Francesco faded, the last thing he saw was Apollina’s face, tears streaming down her cheeks. In the distance, sirens screamed.
The gentle lapping of waves against the dock continued, indifferent. Another day was dawning in Naples, but for Francesco Sarracino, there would be no more sunrises.
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